


as simple as that

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Series: as simple as that [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anyway sorry about the tags, Dating, Everything is so much simpler I don't know why I didn't think of that earlier, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sherlock is insecure, This story has literally no conflict whatsoever, and awkward, this is it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:03:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: “John, wouldyouwanttogoonadatewithme?”It was a sunny and peaceful afternoon in 221b when Sherlock sat down in front of his flatmate and the words escaped from his mouth.John stared at him, as he had not understood half of that sentence. “Sorry, what was that?”Sherlock cleared his throat, his face suddenly taking the colour of a very, very ripe tomato. “I said… would you want to go on a date with… me?”





	1. First Date

**Author's Note:**

> "What if Sherlock just asked John on a date?" I asked myself while taking a bath.
> 
> And here we are now. 
> 
> Anyway, here is the fluffy story about the time Sherlock asked John on a date, and all the dates that followed, in a world where things are much, much simpler. 
> 
> Big thanks to [sorcererofsupremepizza](https://sorcererofsupremepizza.tumblr.com/) for her screaming and encouragements while I was writing this thing because it always helps me to get it actually done. 
> 
> (Please note that English is not my first language - sorry about any mistakes you encounter! This is not a WIP, as I have finished writing the story. I will most likely update it once a day or two, and there will be a total of four chapters. This work will also most likely be the first part of a very, very fluffy series. Enjoy!)

 

“John, wouldyouwanttogoonadatewithme?”

It was a sunny and peaceful afternoon in 221b when Sherlock sat down in front of his flatmate and the words escaped from his mouth.

John stared at him, as he had not understood half of that sentence.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, his face suddenly taking the colour of a very, very ripe tomato. “I said… would you want to go on a date with… me?” He looked down, avoiding all eye-contact and mentally ready to flee downstairs at the first sign of laughter.

“Is it for a case?”, John asked, looking back at him with his usual _don’t-mess-with-me-Sherlock_ death-stare. “Sherlock, are you _sweating_?”

“No.” It was the true answer to the first question, and an obvious lie regarding the second one.

“Are you messing with me?” Still, John was not entirely convinced. “Last time we went out to the cinema you ended up ripping the big screen with a sword in the middle of the sex scene of the Titanic to catch a international drug smuggler who was already gone by the time you had dropped all your popcorn on me.”

He recalled the moment with no intent to hide the irony in his voice tone, but he wanted to be sure he was not embarking on some other fiasco of that nature.

“No, John, I wouldn’t, not, not about _that_. I mean, ugh,” Sherlock managed to say, while nervously playing with the fabric of his shirt.

“Christ, Sherlock, why now? We’ve been living together in this flat for two years and you’re asking me on a date _now_? What changed your mind?”

“Ahem, well, there was all the Moriarty stuff before. And, well, I like you, and, hum, if I’ve deduced it correctly I would say that you, eh, you like me as well.”

John put the paper on the table and gazed at Sherlock who looked as if he was about to be ill. There was a moment of silence.

“Fair enough,” John sighed.

“Good. Are you free tonight at eight? In fact you are, I already checked. I’ll get you at seven forty-five if that’sokaynowthankyouandgoodday.”

And Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs.

Slightly shook by the conversation he just had, John picked up the paper and lifted it in front of his face, unsuccessfully trying to cover the smug smile that was spreading on his lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The doorbell rang at exactly 19:41, just as John had finished shaving and had put on some casual clothes: simple black trousers and his favourite black-and-white jumper. He jumped a little since they were not expecting clients at that hour of the day, and he was already persuaded that Sherlock had ran off on a case without him and forgotten about the crazy idea he had earlier.

It was indeed a surprise when he answered the door (as Mrs. H was currently out of town at a spa with her sister) only to find a very-well dressed and very anxious-looking Sherlock behind it.

“Sherlock, did you forget your k— wait, are you wearing a _tuxedo_?”

Sherlock lifted his weight from one f0ot to the other. “I told you I’d come to get you. Sorry I’m a little bit early I’ve been standing here for ten minutes now and I deduced that you would have finished dressing up three minutes beforehand so I just— oh wait, these are for you.”

He handed over to John a bouquet of red roses while still avoiding any eye contact.

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re really serious about this.”

“I am. I want to do it properly, this time.”

John smiled, accepting the gift he put on the table beside the door. “Alright. I’ll put these in a vase when we get back. Now, where are you taking me?”

For the first time that evening, Sherlock smiled. “Angelo’s. I’ve made reservations.”

John grabbed his coat and stepped outside. “Wait. I’m clearly underdressed. I can’t go like that when you’re wearing a tux.”

“There’s no time John, we are on a schedule! And… Well… You look nice in that jumper of yours. I might even say that it’s my favourite one.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since just now, I think.”

“And I think you look bloody gorgeous in that tux,” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear just as they were getting into the cab.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, and stared again at his feet so intensely that he could nearly see the through the cab’s floor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fortunately enough for Sherlock the ride was not that long because he could not think a single thing to say for the life of him. Every line he had prepared now felt totally stupid, and he could not simply come up with new ones. These things demanded preparation and a thoughtful process (and also a copy of _Dating for Dummies_ , a few website including wikiHow and womanshealthmag.com, and maybe a few elucidating texts from Molly).

Every time Sherlock opened his mouth to say something was followed by instantly closing it and dismissing whatever scripted line he had formulated in his mind, which gave him the likeness of a particularly slow goldfish.

The cab pulled over in front of Angelo’s, and as John reached for the door handle Sherlock screamed.

“WAIT!”

John jumped in his seat and raised his eyebrows, wondering if there was a murdered waiting outside for the first person to open the cab’s door or if Sherlock was having some sort of an attack.

“Just a second,” said Sherlock, handing over money to the cab driver.

Intrigued, John waited as Sherlock got out of the cab, went around it and opened the door for him.

“Oh my god, Sherlock, did you read a book on 1950’s etiquette or something like that?”

Sherlock looked down once again, thinking that the whole date-idea might have been a mistake.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on a normal date?”

John’s heart instantly ached as he apologized. “Have you never been on a date before?” John sighed. With Sherlock’s amount of nervousness he had been slow to understand. “Of course not. Anyway, you don’t have to follow every rule in the book, Sherlock. And it’s us. I don’t think we can ever qualify as _normal_.”

 

The words seemed to have calmed down Sherlock a tad as they both entered the restaurant. As always, Angelo was there to greet them in person, and led them to the table they sat at during their first case. Outside the window Soho was fully illuminated in pink, and John wondered for a second if it was somehow Sherlock’s doing. He would not be surprised, after all.

“Angelo, can we please get a candle for the table?” he asked.

For the first time that night, Sherlock truthfully smiled.

They quickly ordered their favourite plates and Sherlock even insisted on ordering the priciest red wine there was on the menu (Angelo insisted on giving it to them as a present for “the occasion”).

After taking a sip of wine (and managing not to make a disgusted face because Sherlock had always _hated_ wine), he looked deeply in John’s eyes. “So, John, what do you do in life?”

John stared at him, puzzled. “Sherlock, are you suffering from amnesia? You know perfectly well that—”

“I do not think you understood when I told you that I wanted to get things _right_. This is our first date, John, I know nothing about you and I care to know what you are doing for a living.”

“Oh,” John mouthed before he smiled and leaned a little bit over the table. If that was what Sherlock wanted, he was going to bring on his A game. Let’s see if the detective would survive the night.

“Alright, then. I’m a retired army doctor from Afghanistan and I’m currently living with a git whose primary interest is solving crimes, so I accompany him on his frankly ridiculous adventures, and I occasionally blog about it. Not running away yet? Good. And what are you doing for a living, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’m a detective. A consulting detective, actually,” Sherlock answered, visibly flustered, “the only one in the world, that is.”

 

There was a slight interruption as Angelo brought their plates: gnocchi with pesto sauce for Sherlock, and risotto for John. A few minutes of silence went by as they dug in the food (although Sherlock’s stomach felt so tight he was unsure if he could eat at all), before John spoke again.

“So, if you’re as good as a detective as I think you are, why didn’t you simply deduce what my job is?”

Straightening himself on the chair, Sherlock was slightly taken aback. “I guess I prefer to… I mean I was taught t… It’s just that… Ugh.” Again, words were failing him, and he suddenly felt as if the room temperature went through the roof. “I like, uh, to hear the sound of your voice.”

“Is that how Sherlock Holmes flirts like?” John snorted out a laugh, and Sherlock blushed again. “I’m not laughing at you, I just think it’s cute.”

“Really, John, in a sea of opportunity and you chose to go with « cute »?” he answered in a detached tone, secretly finding the compliment quite lovely.

“Yes, cute. And since we’re on the subject, I’m going to tell you more about my flatmate.”

“Mmh?” Sherlock hummed, taking another gnocchi in his mouth.

“Yes. He’s quite a prick, in fact, but when you get to know him a little bit better you’d understand that he’s amazingly kind, irritating and clever at the same time.”

“Tell me more.”

“Yes – he never shuts up, but he also has that gorgeous baritone voice, so I don’t usually mind, and of course, he’s the most brilliant detective I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “Interesting. And have you met a lot of detectives?”

“I have. All of them, actually. He’s the best one – by far. I have scientific proof.”

Sherlock suddenly had to fight another blushing attack, and unsuccessfully tried to hide it although it did not matter anymore since John was finding that particularly adorable. They went back to eating in silence for a few minutes.

 

Then, Sherlock felt John’s leg rubbing against his own. There was a loud noise as he dropped his fork on the floor. “Oh, sod this, I’m so so sorry,” he apologized, going under the table to retrieve the fork before asking a waiter for a new one.

“I’m sorry, this was not a good idea. I have no clue what I’m doing. This date is ruined.”

He was already ready to get up and leave when John took him by the sleeve. “Sherlock, just… relax. Please. You’re doing fine.”

“No, I’m doing terribly bad, at this point we’d be supposed to—”

“Stop this. Seriously. There’s no recipe, no steps to follow for being on a date, Sherlock. Just be yourself.”

“But you hate it when I’m being myself.”

John sighed. They had a long way to go. “Listen, yes sometimes you can be irritating, yes sometimes you act like a five-year old. But I don’t hate it. I don’t hate you. It is in fact the very opposite of that. I’ve stuck around for two years and you’re only worried now that it won’t work anymore!”

Feeling a tad guilty, Sherlock concentrated on his gnocchi.

“Sherlock, do you remember the first time we ate here?”

“No John, we’re not supposed to know each other!”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John replied, looking fondly at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes I do.”

“At that time I said « It’s all fine. » You remember that? Good. You know what I meant, right?”

Sherlock nodded. “I… I think so.”

“Good.”

“And when I said that girlfriends weren’t really my area…” Sherlock began.

“I got the idea, Sherlock, you were quite obvious about it.”

“I also said that I was married to my work, John, and I’m sorry it’s just because I was nervous because I thought that—”

John laughed. “I never would have guessed.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Didn’t you say we were on a schedule?” John asked as they were leaving the restaurant, their stomachs full.

“Yes, but it’s far too late for the other part of the date. I’ll save it for later. Anyway, I don’t want to scare you away with elaborate plans on the first date.”

John nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s skills to make a cab appear out of nowhere did not seem to work that night, and so they decided to get home on foot.

“I must say that I’m impressed, Sherlock, you actually managed to not stumble upon a murderer while going out.”

“That’s what you think. I actually caught one when I went to the loo.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he was trying to hide a body in the cupboard but I got there in time to catch him.”

Smiling, John nodded. “How lovely.”

 

They kept walking in silence, as John could still feel Sherlock’s nervousness. He frankly had no idea what this whole date-thing would lead to, but in all honesty he had had a wonderful night.

Walking side-by-side, Sherlock was constantly trying to calculate the space between them and judge if it was not too close enough to scare John away. He deeply wanted to hold his hand but at the same time he did not want to mix up the steps, nor to appear as ridiculous in front of his _first ever date_.

It was starting to snow just as they stopped in front of 221’s door. There was a shared moment of silence.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, now?” John said softly, hopelessly staring at the snowflakes in Sherlock’s curls.

He took a step closer to John. “Is that what normal people do, at the end of the first date?”

“Usually yes, but you can do whatever you want,” John replied.

“Then, I’m going to kiss you.”

Sherlock leaned in quite awkwardly, and as softly as he could, he pressed his lips against John’s before instantly retrieving.

“Was that… good?”

“Very. Now stop thinking and kiss me again.”

 

And so Sherlock did, but this time it was long enough for John to get hold of him, to pull him closer and put his hands at the back of his neck, then to run his fingers in his curls, then to open Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue and properly kiss him, and for Sherlock to kiss him back with his tongue as well, and it was sloppy and unsure and he was frankly not quite very good at it but oh God did he enjoy it just as much as John did.

And John kept pulling Sherlock’s head down and down and kissing him more and more and now they were both completely freezing on the pavement as people passed by and looked but they didn’t care and now that they had started John was unable to stop and he just wanted to keep kissing and kissing the life out of—

“No,” simply said Sherlock, slightly moving back.

“I said nothing,” John answered, a little bit confused as to why the kissing had stopped.

“You were thinking, and I’m saying no. It’s our first date, we can’t go further.”

“You know,” John said, a little bit irritated, “there are no real rules. We can do what we want, when we want.”

“I know. But I want to wait. I have other dates to take you to.”

John sighed. “We’re really doing this the traditional way, then? Taking it slowly?”

“I just want to get—”

“—it right, I know. I understand. Alright.”

John leaned in to open the door, only to be stopped by Sherlock. “What now?”

“People who date do not usually live together.”

“And?”

“Well we can’t just go on casually after this first date!”

“What do you have on your mind?”

Sherlock looked at the door, thinking. “Okay, you’ll go first, so you can wash and go to bed, and then when you’ll be upstairs I’ll go in and do the same. Tomorrow we’ll act as if nothing happened, until our second date in the evening.”

“Well,” John said, raising his eyebrows, “that sounds a little bit intense. And I don’t think I can keep pretending nothing happened. But if you really want to, yes, I guess we could try.”

“Good.”

Sherlock took John’s phone. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m giving you my number, so you can text me.”

“You already have my number.”

“Yes, but I deleted it and now I’m giving it to you again.”

John could not repress his laughter. “You’re crazy.”

“And you’re going upstairs now. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

And John kissed him on the cheek.

 


	2. Second Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up as John and Sherlock are both in their rooms after their first date.
> 
> It's slightly shorter, but the next chapter is going to compensate for that!

[23:22] SH: Why aren’t you texting me??

 

[23:25] JW: You really have no idea how this works, don’t you?

 

[23:25] SH: No. Aren’t you supposed to text me after I gave you my number?

 

[23:26] JW: Yeah, about that, how did you get my number, Mr. Holmes?

[23:26] JW: And no, usually you’re supposed to wait a bit. I didn’t even have the time to change into pyjamas.

 

[23:27] SH: I deduced it.

[23:27] SH: I’m sorry.

 

[23:28] JW: Of course you did. And don’t be.

 

[23:30] SH: I miss you.

 

[23:32] JW: Again, not really first-date material, Sherlock.

 

[23:32] SH: … What do people normally say after their first date, then?

 

[23:35] JW: “Was nice to meet you”, “had a good time”, “want to do this again?”

 

[23:36] SH: Horrifying. I miss you.

 

[23:40] JW: I miss you too.

 

[23:41] SH: It feels sad, being alone downstairs.

 

[23:42] JW: Christ, Sherlock, you can’t say that after telling me you want to take things slowly.

 

[23:43] SH: Sorry.

 

 

[23:56] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: John, are you asleep?

 

[23:59] JW: no

 

[00:01] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: What were you doing?

 

[oo:o3] JW: nothing

[00:05] JW: just go to sleep, all right? see you tomorrow

 

[00:12] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: sweet dreams, John

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Sherlock woke up in the morning and got out of his room, John was already in the living room reading his newspaper, and there was a bouquet of roses sitting on a vase (one he had not seen before and so he deduced he had got it from Mrs. H) on the table.

After a yawn, he pointed at the flowers. “These are nice,” he said, as John put down the paper.

“Hm, yes they are, my date brought me these yesterday.”

Sherlock dropped himself on the sofa, still in his pyjamas and robe. “Ah, that’s right. How was it?”

“Lovely, actually. I had quite a good time. He had everything planned out for the evening.”

“He?” said Sherlock, suddenly interested.

“Hm, yes, does that surprises you?”

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “No, not really. So how was he? Mysterious and composed?”

John could not help but laugh, and Sherlock blinked too many times, puzzled. “More like completely terrified. But that’s alright, I found it quite charming, in fact.”

“Ah,” Sherlock replied, standing up and taking the violin out of its case, “that’s good, I guess. Are you seeing him again?”

“Yes, tonight, in fact. He’s supposed to text me. Although it’s a tad unconventional.”

“Why so?” Sherlock asked, his voice filling with nervousness.

“Well usually one waits at least three or four days between dates. Or a week, even.”

“Dull.”

“I agree,” John replied with a grin.

Trying to hide the pleased smile on his face, Sherlock turned to face the window, and started playing a tune John did not know the title of, or the composer. In fact, he was not entirely sure if it wasn’t Sherlock himself who was improvising.

It was, indeed, quite a happy tune.

 

 

* * *

 

 

[14:02] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: Hello John.

 

[14:05] JW: Ah, I wondered when you’d text.

 

[14:06] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: Had fun last night?

 

[14:06] JW: Yes, it was amazing.

 

[14:08] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: I have been informed my methods are unconventional, but I would very much like to see you again tonight, if you’re free.

 

[14:09] JW: I am. Any plans?

 

[14:10] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: Yes, you’ll see. I’ll get you around 8:30.

 

[14:12] JW: Do I need to dress like James Bond or is casual ok?

 

[14:13] bloody-gorgeous-Sherlock: Casual is totally fine.

 

[14:15] JW: All right, see you tonight, then.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Really, Sherlock, a romantic comedy?”

They were both outside the theater, waiting to get their tickets for _Midnight in Paris_.

“Isn’t it what people go watch on dates? And since the last time we went to the movies wasn’t satisfactory enough for you then we might as well try again.”

John sighed. “It is indeed what normal people do, but you’ll find it boring. And please say you didn’t bring a sword this time.”

Sherlock looked back at him in his usual _can’t-you-understand_ stare. “It’s not about the movie, John. And of course I did _not_ bring a sword to our date, even if it would have added a great deal of excitement.” He cleared his throat, confidence suddenly taken away from him as if someone had pulled the carpet under his feet. “But if you don’t like it we don’t have to go.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock, I’ll enjoy it, but I’m telling you you’re going to get bored quickly.”

It was already their turn at the counter. “Two tickets for Midnight in Paris. The back row, please,” Sherlock said to the cashier before turning over to John. “It seems like you don’t know me that well, Watson.”

 

It took exactly seventeen minutes and thirty-three seconds, approximately seven minutes longer than what John had internally predicted.

 

During the previews Sherlock had sarcastically commented on each one of them, giving away the plot and eating half of the popcorn they had bought for the actual movie. John was quite relieved to see Sherlock go back to his former self, although when the movie started he felt him tense up in his seat.

The first seventeen and thirty-three seconds had been spent in total silence, both of them watching the movie. Although only John who was truly watching it – Sherlock was well to concentrated on his internal debate deciding whether or not he should hold John’s hand throughout the screening.

With his hand on his knee – just like John’s was on his own – he finally settled for moving it slightly sideways, in a tentative exploratory mission. Just as he brushed up John’s pinky finger, he suddenly felt him grabbing his hand and gently squeezing it as a sign of reassurance. Sherlock, with all the power invested in him at that moment, did not look at John and tried to focus on the main couple already having a domestic of some kind.

 

And so, as the seventeen minutes and thirty-three seconds since the beginning of the movie had passed, no hand holding was going to save Sherlock Holmes from the torture that was being directly poured in his eyeballs:

“Okay, this is actually very boring,” he said out loud, slightly louder than the usual and respectful cinema-experience-whispering.

John snorted. “I told you so,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.

“If this movie was at least accurate in its portrayal of the 1920’s but I kept seeing—”

Someone from the row just in front of them turned back at shushed at Sherlock with a look he had previously seen on murderer’s faces when about to commit their crimes. Just as the person turned back, Sherlock threw a popcorn at them but missed it by two good rows, landing on the head of an old lady who turned back, looking for the moron who was disrupting her enjoyment of the movie.

“You git,” John said, actually laughing, which prompted at least three more people to turn around and shush in harmony.

“But I—”

“Shut up, or we won’t make it to the end of the movie.”

“I don’t want—”

As John thought, kissing Sherlock actually proved to be a good way to make him stop talking.

 

They did not really follow the rest of the plot – actually, they were still snogging while the overly slow and boring credits rolled accompanied by the cheesiest romantic music. It was only when the janitor came to the last row with his broom and his look that was saying _now-you’re-getting-out-of-this-place-or-I’m-calling-security_ that they consider moving away from their seats – and each other.

 

It was already quite late when the cab stopped at an intersection maybe ten minutes away from Baker St., so that they could walk the rest back home hand in hand for the first time. Although the snow had melted from the previous night, it was actually quite cold outside, and when they arrived their ears and noses were already red.

Sherlock in his habitual graceful walking nearly killed himself by stumbling upon the side of the pavement, only caught by John at the last second.

“Oh, I’m making a fool of myself again,” he simply stated, blushing again.

John kissed him on his cheek. “Mmh, but you’re a mysterious and composed fool.”

Sherlock smiled as his only answer before considered the door. “Alright, you go first. Just… be quick, it’s freezing out there.”

“We really need to do the whole separation thing again? Okay, okay, I’ll go. But kiss me goodbye first.”

And so Sherlock did.

“You’re improving,” John said and winked, before closing the door behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

[00:02] JW: I forgot to ask you if you’d like to see me again?

 

[00:02] fucking-amazing-Sherlock: Of course I want to.

 

[00:03] JW: Tomorrow, then?

 

[00:02] fucking-amazing-Sherlock: Yes.

 

[00:04] JW: All right, this time I’m taking you out.

 

[00:05] fucking-amazing-Sherlock: Really? Where are we going?

 

[00:06] JW: You’ll see. I’ll be there at ten. Dress up, but there’s no need for a tux where we’re going.

 

[00:08] fucking-amazing-Sherlock: Noted.

[00:10] fucking-amazing-Sherlock: Goodnight, then.

 

[00:11] JW: Goodnight.

 

 

[00:25] fucking-amazing-Sherlock: I’m still thinking about you.

 

[00:25] JW: Me too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. :) Next chapter should arrive tomorrow!


	3. Third Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry for the little delay!) 
> 
> For their third date, John is taking Sherlock to a bar... and not any bar, that is!

John rang the doorbell exactly ten minutes before ten in the evening. Sherlock opened the door immediately.

“Sorry I’m early,” John began to say, “but I could not wait any longer to see you.”

“Quite frankly I’ve been standing behind the door for at least fifteen minutes now.”

John did not add that he was also standing on the pavement for some time before ringing the door, and with an awkward smile he imagined them both standing a few inches apart without knowing.

The day had been tremendously long, as it was tougher and tougher to act in the morning as if nothing had happened the night before. Finally, John got dressed around lunchtime and went out for the rest of the day until the date, trying to find the perfect place to take Sherlock to.

“So, you’re ready? We’ll have to take a cab.”

Sherlock nodded, and taking John’s hand into his own, hailed a cab which (of course) magically appeared under mere amount of seconds. “After you,” he said, opening the door.

“And they say that I’m the romantic,” John sighed, before kissing him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“A bar?”

This time, it was John’s turn to look nervous. “Is that all right with you?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, I don’t see why not.”

As they entered, John made his way towards the bar and ordered two beers, before choosing a small round table in a dark corner of the pink-and-purple lit room.

There was a moment of silence as they both drank, and Sherlock started to look around him. For a bar, he thought, there was a tremendous amount of men, and nearly no women in sight. Also, everybody was dressed in a fashion he would not usually see on the streets, and—

“Oh. _Oh_. This is a gay bar.”

John looked at Sherlock, puzzled. “You know, for a detective, Mr. Holmes you seem quite slow sometimes.”

“Hum, it’s just that I was focused on the actual date, I didn’t notice anything else.”

John laughed. “Don’t get all irritated on me, I was only joking.”

He took another sip of his beer, and then he had an idea.

“Actually, Sherlock, I don’t know that much about you.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Of course you don’t, this is only our third date.”

 

Trying not to roll his eyes, John leaned in instead with a smug smile. “Listen, I have an idea for a game. You tell me something about you I don’t know, and I tell you if it’s a lie or not. If I’m wrong I take a sip, if I’m not you take one. Or a shooter if you want but we’ll start with beer. And then it’s your turn to guess if I’m lying or not.”

“If you know me well enough you’ll know that I never guess.”

“Let see. I can begin.” John thought for a second about what he was going to say. “Let’s start easy: I know how to play guitar.”

“That’s a lie, you only know how to play clarinet, and you’re not that good.”

John huffed before taking a sip. “You win this round. Your turn.”

“Okay. Uh, I had a dog when I was young. His name was Redbeard and we used to play pirates.”

“I’m going to say that it’s true,” John guessed.

Sherlock drank his beer. “It is. Your turn.”

“I won the student athlete title one year at high school.”

“That must be true.”

“It’s not, I actually won it three times in a row,” John said and wink.

Sherlock laughed. “That’s unfair!”

“I’m not playing fair with you, Sherlock.”

The detective blushed and took a sip of his drink in the hope that he would not have to answer that statement.

They kept on playing for a while, discovering snippets of each other’s lives they never knew about: John had had the chicken pox not once but twice, and Sherlock never got it. Sherlock had never been properly drunk, but John was often crowned king of the party in college. He had graduated at the top of his class, yet Sherlock had nearly failed his diploma since he had spent most of his college years doing whatever experiment he found interesting in his chemistry lab instead of following his teacher’s rules.

As the beer was gradually disappearing from their glasses, their lies and truths got way more risky. Of course, John had the ability to hold his alcohol way better than Sherlock, who was already getting sloppier after his first pint of beer.

“I am certain that it’s a lie, John, you could never have stolen anything in your life,” he said, sure of himself.

John smiled. “Yeah that was a lie. It was actually Bill who stole the bike, but he got caught two days later. A pity, the bike wasn’t that nice.”

They both laughed, their senses slightly numbed by the alcohol circulating in their bodies.

“I’ve never been to a gay bar,” Sherlock blurted out, looking at John.

He took a moment to decide if that was true or not. “I’m going to say lie.”

“It is. I had some really unfortunate college experiences, but that’s a story for later. I don’t want to scare you on our third date.”

As Sherlock drank, John thought that there was nothing coming from Sherlock’s mouth that would have the ability to scare him off. Not after two years, not after three dates, in any way.

“I never slept with a man,” John blurted out, semi-conscious about what he was saying. He definitely regretted it a second later as Sherlock nearly choked on his beer. It was apparently his turn to scare the man off.

“Lie,” Sherlock called out, one-hundred percent sure of himself.

“It’s not.”

“How can that be true?”

“I tell you, it’s not a lie.”

“John, I can’t believe that, every man I know would be lucky to have sex with you.”

This time it was John who choked on his drink as he felt the liquid coming up his nose. “That’s not really the way _that_ works, Sherlock. But thank you for the compliment… I guess? Anyway, your turn.”

At this point, Sherlock was running out of ideas. There was still one thing, but he was not sure he wanted to share it, although the amount of alcohol he had been drinking that night had deprived him from his thought-to-mouth filter (which had always been a really thin one anyway).

“I’ve danced ballet when I was a kid, and I loved it.”

John looked at him. “Lie.”

“It’s not. It’s true.”

“What? Sherlock, you never told me that.”

“Well it’s only our third date, don’t make a big deal out of this.”

John sighed. “Sherlock, it’s a big deal. I never knew you… Oh. Okay, now we have to get on the dance floor. Come on.”

He had gotten up and extended his hand in an invitation to go dance.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, John.”

“Sherlock! Come on! It’ll be fun!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, secretly pleased with the invitation, and got up of his chair by nearly sliding down from it onto the floor. It made John laugh, and Sherlock took note to make silly things more often if it always had that result.

They both stumbled their way down the dance floor, finding a spot in the middle where the mist was not too intense, and John started dancing in front of a very nervous looking Sherlock.

John had gone to too many parties while in high-school and college, so he had had his fare share of clubbing and bars – yet he never particularly enjoyed dancing. He had learned the moves since most of his girlfriends liked the prospect of a wild night on the dance floor, and so John would have fun, but frankly, he had never been keen about that activity.

Yet as Sherlock had revealed that fact about himself, John understood that it was his duty to invite him on the dance floor – maybe his nervousness would fade away as they would become one with the music, dancing closely, their bodies one against the other and their minds full of lust for each other.

But in that moment no one was “one with the music”: John’s moves were interesting in that way that they would have been popular two decades ago, and Sherlock looked so stiff jumping from one foot to the other that he might as well had a stick up his arse.

John thought that maybe his date was still nervous, or maybe he simply was better off with choreographed dancing. Anyway, he was (for the first time, that is) tremendously enjoying himself amongst the crowd despite how the situation was looking like to an outside eye.

Minutes later Sherlock seemed to calm down as his movements grew more fluid. His eyes were closed, fully enjoying the music and feeling it flowing through every inch of his body. The music eventually slowed down, and Sherlock’s heart jumped when he felt John’s arms sliding on his shoulders, pulling him gently downwards for a kiss. It was particularly soft and tender, this time around, as Sherlock only opened his eyes when his forehead bumped into John’s. As well, it could stick there for the rest of the slow-dance, which allowed him to explore John’s eyes more closely, until he felt that he might be getting sick from turning in place for now three full minutes.

Another kiss sealed the ending the romantic music as something more upbeat started playing. Sherlock straightened himself as John let him free of his arms. “Do you want to get another drink?”

By now, they had been dancing for a whole hour, and Sherlock was getting thirsty, so he nodded in agreement to avoid having to talk over the loud music. He followed him through the crowd, definitely too concentrated on the back of John’s head to notice the enormous seven feet tall guy heading in his way, also looking somewhere else.

The collision was inevitable.

He slammed head first into the man, who turned his head just in time to receive Sherlock’s nose on the side of his chin (although in Sherlock’s opinion the nose suffered quite more damage than the chin). He would have hit the floor only if the man did not catch him in time by the arm, pulling him back on his feet in a movement worthy of the best choreographed flamenco.

“Sorry,” mumbled Sherlock, more sorry about his bloody nose than the imminent murder of the stranger.

He had lost John out of his sight, who of course, because of the loud music did not hear anything about the incident while it was happening.

“That’s okay, just watch where—” The man’s voice was as low as he was tall, and Sherlock reconsidered his desires about homicide. But then, the stranger’s whole attitude changed as he took a look at the one he had bumped into. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Jack. Care for a drink?”

And just like a lamb falling into the lion’s trap, Sherlock shrugged his shoulder. “I’m thirsty, why not?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

John, beer in hand, searched and searched for Sherlock before finding him fifteen minutes later at the bar just beside the loo. His concern did not only disappear but it grew out of hand when he saw that he was chatting with the biggest and most in shape man he had ever seen.

“Sherlock? I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

“Jooohnnn, sit down… would you? Jack was telling me a fa-bu-lous story about the time he won a boxing tournament when the other boxer just looked at him and declared forfeit.”

John raised an eyebrow, noticing the two trails of blood coming down of Sherlock’s nose. “Sherlock, is your nose bleeding? Did you get yourself in a fight? Come on here, I’ll take a closer look.”

“Hey,” Jack called him out, “who are you?”

Frankly, John was not in the mood of having a nice conversation but also did not want to make the human rock angry. “I think I can ask you the same question?” he said, before he caught a glimpse of two vodka shooters on the counter. Who was this Jack, and why was he doing with _his_ date?

“I’m just having fun with the cute one right here.” He looked back at John and smiled. “What? He’s clearly out of your league anyway, shortie.”

John took a deep breath, and felt his hand clench into a fist, but Sherlock intervened first. “Hey, that’s not a very nice thing to say, John is my date!”

The man laughed. “Your date? Come on, let’s leave him here and go have some fun somewhere else. I bet he can’t even shag you as well as I would.”

Sherlock got up, poked the man’s torso with his index finger in a vaguely menacing way, opening his mouth and closing it a moment later, apparently without a clever comeback.

It was enough of a distraction for John to throw a punch.

Fortunately enough, he did not miss Jack’s nose, and most fortunately, the man blinked for a second before letting out a cry of rage. It was enough time for John to whisper “Get your coat and run!” to Sherlock’s ear, before both of them were out of the pained bear’s sight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You were _really_ _brave_ , back there, John,” said Sherlock when they finally stopped running. He had run not once but twice into a street lamp as he had been running in every direction on the pavement, clearly still under the influence of alcohol. They were both standing under the last street lamp that had been Sherlock's victim - John had calculated that it was a fair distance away from the bar to be safe as he was trying to stop Sherlock's nose from bleeding. 

“Alright, now just don’t move, and hold your nose like I showed you to.”

“Like that?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

Finally, the bleeding managed to stop, and John wiped Sherlock’s upper lip with a Kleenex. “Now will you tell me why you were accepting drinks from that man on our date?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “I was thirsty. He was being nice.”

“He was not being _nice_ , Sherlock,” John said, rolling his eyes, “when you accept drinks form strangers that usually means you’re interested.”

“Oh. _Oh_. And you weren’t there to tell me that. Why is it so complicated? Why can’t people just say what they want?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a moment of silence as they were still standing in the light of the street lamp, a bright golden corner in the dark of the night.

A single hesitation from John’s part. Then:

“Don’t you worry that he was right?”

Sherlock looked back at him. “Frankly John I would not underestimate your sexual performan—”

“Not that, you idiot.”

“What then?”

“About you being… out of my league.”

A frown covered Sherlock’s face. “Now John you know that I’m not really into sports so you’ll have to explain what you mean by—”

“It means that you’re gorgeous and brilliant and everything else and I am very much average.”

Sherlock gasped, turned on his heels and cupped John’s face with both his hands in an overly dramatic fasion. “You can’t _possibly_ believe such a thing, John. In this sea of averageness _you_ are the only thing standing out.” He pointed at the street lamp. “See this lamp? You’re like that: a conductor of light. You understand?”

“I’m not sure I do but I’m going to take it as a compliment.”

“No. You _understand_. You understand _me_. You are the link between me and the external world, but also between me and myself. You take everything good left in me and concentrate it to create that light that shines on everything – and it allows me to see what I couldn’t before. Kindness, happiness, mostly, and you, of course.”

During his monologue, Sherlock had stopped holding John’s face and had began to walk, flopping his arms around as he was explaining his inner thoughts.

“Okay Sherlock, you are very drunk,” John sniffed, his voice hoarse.

“Probably.”

A few minutes passed as they walked in silence, side by side. At the corner of the street they just had crossed, Sherlock stopped, his eyes wide open.

“Oh. My. God.”

“What? Is everything alright?”

“He thought we were going to have sex.” The realization hit him. “He is _huge_!”

And then, he burst out laughing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was still in hysterics when they arrived in front of 221, mumbling sentences as John was not able to understand half of them who was only trying to not make him fall under a car or in a sewer.

“… and then, I said that I had a sister, and not only that she was cleverer than me – can you believe that? – but she was also sequestrated on an island in the middle of the ocean… and he believed me!”

By that time, Sherlock’s looked more as if he was having seizures than actually laughing.

“I can’t believe the moron, everybody knows there is no one cleverer than you,” said John, with both irony and fondness in his tone.

They stopped in front of the door, and Sherlock stopped laughing for a second to kiss John. It was not a kiss they had had before – this one was longer, more intense, full of lust: a creator of very interesting ideas.

“So, are we doing as always or are you actually going to invite me in?” said John.

Sherlock opened the door, stumbling a little bit on the pavement. “After you.”

 

They got upstairs, and John hung his coat. “Alright, Sherlock, just get in your bed and I’m going to make some tea. You have to stay hydrated or you’ll want to die in the morning. And I’ll bring you a bucket, in case you’re sick during the night.”

As water started to boil, John heard some stumbling in Sherlock’s room. Knowing that the drunken detective could probably fall off the window if he tried hard enough to, he decided to go check on him, but just as the thought occurred, Sherlock called for him. “John, come here!”

“Is everything alright? I just heard—”

The door was half-shut, but when he fully opened it, John considered that the falling-off-the-window might have been less of surprise, actually.

“Sherlock Holmes, _put your pants on_!” John waved his arms in the air as to invoke the God of patience before turning his back on a very, _very_ naked Sherlock.

“But Joooohn!”

“Sherlock. Your pants.”

“But don’t you want to—”

“No, not tonight.”

John turned around as Sherlock was having a hard time to put some pyjamas pants on.

“Just, come here, I’ll help you,” he sighed, pulling Sherlock’s pants around his waists.

He received a kiss as a thank you, but it felt still long and lingering and John knew perfectly well what Sherlock was trying to achieve.

“I am not sleeping with you tonight,” John gently scolded him.

“Why not?” Sherlock answered, a pout stretching his lips.

“’Cause you’re drunk. And shaking.”

“People have drunk sex all the time.”

John looked at him, again reprimanding. “Not tonight.”

With a sight, Sherlock let himself dramatically fall unto his bed, hands covering his head. “This was really not how I planned things to end up tonight.”

“You _planned_ this? Is it because of what that man said earlier?”

He moved his fingers in order to uncover one of his eyes. “It’s our _third date_ , John, that’s what normal people do, the book said—”

John sighed, and fell down on his stomach, beside Sherlock. “I swear I am going to find that book and burn it.” He rubbed his face, visibly tired of all that nonsense. “Sherlock, please listen to me. We don’t have to sleep together just because a book said so, or because it’s what people « do » on their third date. Most of them don’t, actually. Some people have it on the first night, other people wait, some people never do. There’s no perfect recipe.”

Sherlock looked at him, slightly more understanding. “But don’t you want to?”

“Of course I want to, just… not tonight. I want you to want it too – and for the sake of it, not only because it’s our third date. And I want you to be comfortable about it, which you don’t really seem like at the moment. You said you wanted to get things done properly, so let’s wait.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I don’t mind if it takes a day, a week, a month or a year. I don’t mind waiting.”

“How will I know?”

“You’ll know, Sherlock, don’t worry.”

“Right.”

There was a moment of silence before the detective moaned. “I’ve made a total fool of myself tonight.”

“Alcohol does that. Sorry, I should have known that you don’t hold it that well.”

Sherlock flopped on his belly and kissed John on the nose.

“At least can you stay here, tonight? Hold me?”

John smiled and moving on his side, passed his arm under Sherlock’s head. “Alright, on the condition that you won’t be sick on me.”

“I’ll try not to,” he mumbled.

John made a mental note about drunk-Sherlock: first, intense, then hysterical, and finally, very, _very_ horny. A second later, the detective was already asleep, and much to John’s irritation, loudly snoring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! :)   
> Fourth and final chapter is to come this weekend!


	4. A ruined breakfast and many more dates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we are near the end of the story, John and Sherlock settle into domesticity while still going on many, many dates. Also, Sherlock receives some advice from a friend. 
> 
> (Since the original chapter was quite long I split it in two: there will be five chapters instead of four!)

“John, are you awake?”

John, still asleep, was woken up by Sherlock’s distant voice. He turned on his back to take a look at the detective who had apparently got out of bed before him. “Well I am now. Why?”

“I burned myself. Can you take a look?”

He sat down on the bed, extending an arm that showed a single line of burned skin. John was fully awake by now and inspected the injury. “Experiment? Is it chemical?”

“No, I was cooking.”

“I see. You’ll have to put your arm under cold water and then I’ll give you some—wait, you were _cooking_?”

 

At that exact second, the fire alarm went off.

 

“Oh no, I forgot to take it out of the oven,” Sherlock said, and stormed out of the room, followed by a very concerned John.

Fortunately, there was not much damage to the kitchen other than the fact that it was a total mess. The fire alarm kept on ringing for five more minutes, giving John the idea to simply take his handgun and shoot it off the ceiling once for all, before Sherlock took control of the situation and opened every window nearby. 

He took out the carbonate residue of the thing that was in the oven and put it on the counter.

“What were you cooking?” John asked as he sat down at the kitchen table, quite curious as why his flatmate had decided to fill in the preparation of food for once in his life.

“It was a cake.”

“Why?”

“For breakfast. For _you_.”

John’s eyes were wide open but he did not question the logic of Sherlock’s reasoning and breakfast preferences. “Is it because of all that dating stuff that got in your head?”

“I did not read that anywhere but it felt like the right thing to do. You always complain about the fact that I never cook and I wanted to make you happy. And again, this was a total disaster. It feels like I am not very good at all that _dating stuff_. Not very mysterious and composed today, apparently.”

John sighed again, and getting up, went in front of Sherlock and cupped his head to make him look in the eyes. “Okay, now listen to me, would you? The thing about dating is that people make it seem like this extraordinary thing, when both persons have to be sexy, brilliant, show offs, _mysterious and composed_. But real life is not like that. Real life is messing up the first time but getting it right the one after that, it’s being nervous about asking someone out. It’s being drunk and doing stupid things like punching a body-builder in jealousy or getting naked behind the other one’s back. It’s accepting that we make mistakes, that we’re being awkward and silly and un-mysterious and un-composed because even if we’d like it the other way around that would be tremendously _boring_.”

“Boring,” Sherlock repeated with growing determination.

“Yes, utterly boring. And you make me happy, Sherlock, you’ve made me happy since the day we’ve met, and I’m not going to leave now because you can’t properly cook breakfast. By the way, how come you are a graduate chemist but you can’t properly follow a recipe?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders but did not bother to try to find an answer because John was already kissing him.

“Can I ask... do you remember any of what happened yesterday night?”

Sherlock sighed. “Unfortunately, all of it. I am never drinking again.” He marked a pause before noticing something. “There’s flour on your nose.” He wiped it out with a kiss. “Mmmh, no, that was sugar.”

“You fool,” gently answered John.

He grabbed a handful of flour behind his back before throwing it on Sherlock’s face. There was an outcry of surprise that did not last because John was kissing him again, not bothered by all the flour on Sherlock’s face, and even spreading it through his curls with both of his hands rummaging through his hair.

Sherlock reciprocated and for a few moments the kitchen looked as if a white cloud had exploded, and it did not matter because it was snowing outside and now it was snowing inside and above everything else it was incredibly _happy_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A week passed, then two, then a whole month as winter was slowly settling in London in its usual mix of gray clouds, melting snow and cold rainy days.

Now that the boys had shared a bed, there was no reason to stay apart one another in the flat: this led to a great deal of stay-in dates, concurring with the coldest days when their sole intention was to share a blanket and cuddle, John always gasping at the contact of Sherlock’s overly cold feet.

There were dates at the park, where John unfortunately attacked Sherlock with a snowball that contained a small rock, leaving a cut on his forehead and a John that could not stop apologizing for a whole week. It was around that time that John himself fell into a small pond while trying to convince Sherlock that it was safe enough to walk onto, as the detective would unsuccessfully try to keep his habitual “I told you so” to himself. It was also the time of hot fish and chips shared in the City, and fuming teas shared at home. Bond marathons were always a good excuse for a cuddling session and not so much movie watching, but at least it wasn’t romantic comedies and total fiascos at the movie theatre. Two weeks before Christmas it was time to put up decorations, which took most of the day since the three fell not once but twice, before John realized that Sherlock had actually not put the plastic foot at its base.

Of course, crime solving was still taking out most of their days, as criminals were apparently taking advantage of the spare time in their holidays to commit vile acts of thievery and murder. Cases were another thing, since Sherlock and John had decided that the whole dating thing had to remain a secret for the moment. Nobody knew – not Lestrade, nor Molly, nor Mrs. Hudson, and (probably, Sherlock said) not Mycroft. Strangely enough, all that pretending was not a burden: keeping the secret was tough sometimes, but it mostly felt like carrying this invisible light inside their chests, leaving a very worried Lestrade who could not understand why Sherlock was suddenly smiling so much (“Seriously,” he would say to John, “did he fall on his head or something like that?”)

And when criminals were taking a break and plans were not too important to not carry them out, there was always the opportunity of a lazy morning in bed, only to get out to make some hot cocoa and look at the Christmas lights illuminating the world beyond 221b’s windows.

 

 

* * *

 

 

[21:03] SH: Could you give me advice on a sensible matter?

 

[21:05] The Woman: Irene is currently not able to reply to her phone, I’ll tell her that you sent a text.

 

[21:06] SH: Oh, hello Kate. Congratulations on the engagement.

 

[21:07] The Woman: Thank you! I have to go back now xx

 

[22:21] The Woman: Oh my god.

[22:23] The Woman: Sherlock dear are you finally about to have sex?

[22:27] The Woman: Come on, answer me, don’t leave me hanging like that.

 

[22:30] SH: It is a possibility.

 

[22:32] The Woman: Finally! I always knew John would come around (no pun intended).

 

[22:35] SH: Nobody said anything about John.

 

[22:37] The Woman: Sherlock Holmes, do not lie to my face. John is a lucky man.

 

[22:38] SH: Is he? I think it’s mostly the other way around.

 

[22:40] The Woman: Now Sherlock dear, do not loose focus, I do not have long. What do you need to know?

 

[22:40] SH: Any tips to… prepare?

 

[22:45] The Woman: Know what he likes and what he doesn’t like. Do it everywhere and whenever it’s possible (or not). Be creative, have fun.

[22:45] The Woman: I guess that you are already aware about the different types of it so don’t forget to vary.

[22:46] The Woman: Also go get checked out, use condoms, be safe, DON’T FORGET about the lube, you really don’t want to forget about that.

 

[Draft] SH: yeah that’s not really

[Draft] SH: I mean that’s not what

 

[22:50] SH: I was talking more about the psychological aspect of the preparation.

 

[22:51] The Woman: Oh my god Sherlock, are you afraid?

 

[22:55] SH: No.

 

[22:57] The Woman: You are!

 

[22:58] SH: No.

[22:58] SH: I just want everything to be done right.

 

[23:00] The Woman: Just talk to John, would you?

 

[23:02] SH: Why?

 

[23:05] The Woman: Unless you have some telepathy powers I do not know about, you should really talk to John about this.

[23:06] The Woman: Your first time won’t be your best but it’s still supposed to feel good and right. Don’t stress about it but don’t do anything if it doesn’t feel right. You don’t have to go all the way through the first time. Have fun before so you can get to know him and vice-versa.

[23:07] The Woman: And about your little… insecurity: talk to him, tell him how you feel, he’ll want to know. And you'll know when you'll be ready.

 

[23:10] SH: How will I?

 

[23:12] The Woman: You’ll just know.

 

[Draft] SH: Everybody keeps telling me that but what does—

 

 

* * *

 

 

[11:04] SH: Bored.

 

[11:05] SH: This is dull.

 

[11:06] SH: I might shoot the wall.

 

[11:08] SH: Or destroy the kitchen.

 

[11:15] SH: I miss you.

 

[11:20] JW: I should really learn by now to close my phone at work.

 

[11:22] SH: or you did and now you turned it on because you miss me too

 

[11:25] JW: I can’t believe I’m dating a detective.

[11:26] JW: Of course I did, you git. And of course I miss you.

 

[11:27] SH: Come home.

 

[11:28] JW: Can’t just now. Soon. And to make up for the time I’ve been away this week I’m taking you on a date tonight.

 

[11:30] SH: Where?

 

[11:32] JW: Can’t say, it’s a surprise. Might be a good idea to find where you put that tux of yours, though. I have to go back to work. Tonight, 19:30.

 

[11:33] SH: Okay. See you then.

 

[11:40] SH: I miss you.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was ready at the door exactly at the hour John had mentioned. It took an additional five minutes before he heard a distinct cab horn resonate in the street. He opened the door.

Against the black cab was leaning a very distinguished John wearing a dark-grey suit and holding out a bouquet of red roses.

“Sorry I’m late, Sherlock, but— mmhpf.”

A much-appreciated sloppy French kiss cut his apology short.

“Hey, thank me later, you don’t even know where we’re going,” John said, while Sherlock took the flowers inside.

“I don’t care where we’re going, this is perfect anyway. You’re handsome. Since when do you have a suit?”

John laughed. “Since earlier today. Sarah knows a good tailor in the City and she gave me the afternoon. And I do return the compliment, you look brilliant tonight.”

There was not much talking to do during the fifteen minutes drive due to incessant snogging – not even the driver’s sighs were able to affect them.

“Oh, I think we’re there,” John said, looking outside.

After paying the cab driver, he went around the car and opened Sherlock’s door for him, which earned him another kiss.

“A theater?” he said, looking at the imposing building illuminated with golden lights.

“It’s the Royal Opera House. It’s… your Christmas present, in advance.”

Sherlock looked back at him, frowning, curious as to what John had planned out for the evening. As they entered the hallway full of posh people fashionably dressed, Sherlock looked up the enormous poster that was hanging over an illuminated Christmas tree.

 

THE NUTCRACKER

December to January

The Royal Ballet

 

He froze.

“Sherlock?”

John waited a minute, in the hope that his date would recover his senses back. “Sherlock? Everything all right?”

Another minute.

Then: “Noooo you didn’t. John. John. John?”

He seized his hand with considerable force, as if he was trying to get his way back to reality, persuaded that he was dreaming.

“Yeah, Lestrade actually bought the tickets but since the divorce… anyway, I bought them from him, it seems like he was quite happy to get rid of them. Do you… like it?”

Finally Sherlock stared back at him as if John had pronounced the most vulgar thing in the world. “I love it, John. I take back what I said earlier, about not caring where you take me tonight. This is _amazing_.”

“Alright, then, let’s go get our tickets.”

 

A few minutes later they were sitting at the first row of the balcony, holding hands, Sherlock nervously looking around the huge theater.

“I know you danced before, but did you ever go to a ballet before?”

He nodded. “Only once, with Mum, when I was a kid. Swan Lake. She found it boring so we never went again. She’d put me in front of the DVD after that and I used to watched it for hours on end.”

John smiled. For some reason he was not entirely surprised by that answer. “And of course, criminals make it hard to schedule events like these,” Sherlock added, although he kept the true reason for himself, and John held his hand a little bit tighter.

The lights dimmed off, and Sherlock nervously sprung on his seat. “It begins!” he uselessly added.

But as the lights went down Sherlock’s eyes only got brighter. The music started, and for approximately ten minutes John enjoyed the show.

It was not that he did not like ballets: more like he did not have an opinion about them before that day, but at that very moment he had discovered that he preferred watching Sherlock than the show itself.

The man was slightly leaning over the balcony to get a better look at the dancers: it was definitely not like that time they went to the movie theatre, since John never saw Sherlock be so in awe. It had something of a child’s pure amazement as he was discovering something wonderful, his eyes reflecting the scene lights, his body imperceptibly shivering as the dancers accomplished pirouettes and grands jetés with unbelievable ease, the hair on his neck slightly standing up as the music grew louder and louder, filling every inch of his body but also John’s as it was making his chest grow heavier with fondness and _love_.

Watching Sherlock was in every way the highlight of the night, John thought silently, and wondered why he had not seen _it_ before.

 

“So, enjoyed yourself tonight?” John asked while they were walking back home.

“Tremendously. This is the best Christmas present I ever got _and_ the best date I ever went too.”

It made John laugh fondly, before Sherlock kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you.”

“Alright alright, save some for later, dear.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him again. There was something about the light of the street lamps they were walking under that reminded him how John would simply _glow_ – not only in the dark but every single day. And tonight, he was glowing so much it was nearly blinding Sherlock, and he wondered how could he ever call himself a detective if he had not noticed that before, that he was glowing so intensely he just wanted to kiss him again and again and again and to see him fully and—

 

“Oh.”

 

—he knew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed your read!
> 
> Last chapter arrives in 1-2 days!


	5. In which there are no more dates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter to the story.

[01:02] SH: I know.

 

[01:10] The Woman: Good.

 

[01:12] SH: Do I plan it out or keep it unexpected?

 

[01:15] The Woman: Plan it out if you want to, but in any case it will be unexpected.

 

[01:15] SH: Let’s pretend that I know what you mean.

[01:16] SH: Any last minute advice?

 

[01:19] The Woman: Do what he likes but don’t forget to enjoy yourself and he’ll return the favour. Don’t try to over-do it you have the rest of your life to try everything else. If you climax first, make sure he does too. Stay and talk with him.

[01:20] The Woman: About condoms – get some for your size and some for his.

[01:21] The Woman: Oh my, I bet he’s well endowed.

 

[01:22] SH: I won’t talk about this with you.

 

[01:24] The Woman: … you are actually worried about this.

[01:25] The Woman: I’m sure you’ll manage whatever you’re confronted with. And about you… well I’m sure John will be understanding enough whatever you are worrying about.

 

[1:27] SH: ...

 

[1:28] The Woman: Enjoy.

 

[1:38] SH: Thank you.

 

[09:03] The Woman: Don’t forget the lube Sherlock!!!

 

[9:10] SH: Right.

 

***

 

[9:15] Molly: No Sherlock, I am not going to the store to buy these things for your “experiment”.

 

***

 

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?”

It was December 21rst, and John had been called at the clinic for an emergency, as one of the doctors doing the evening shift was sick. He had returned home quite late, his hands full of grocery bags he dropped when he saw the state of the living room.

For five full seconds he thought he had entered the wrong flat: a bed sheet hung on the ceiling, spreading from the fireplace to the ox skull and the Christmas tree, completely covering their armchairs, occupied half of the space. The contour of it was fortified with random pillows and cushions from the sofa, as well as chairs and an impressive amount of bed sheets John had never seen before.

It was the most enormous pillow-fort he had ever seen.

“Sherlock… are you there?” he called, unsure as if the detective was currently out on a case or simply in hiding.

The voice came from somewhere under the sheet. “Ah! John, come here!”

“… How?”

“There’s a door on your right. You have to knock on it and tell me the password, of course.”

John raised his eyebrows, not sure about the meaning of this little game. “A password?” he asked, finding the “door” which was apparently the sofa cushion surrounded by three others.

“Yes. It was your answer to the first question I ever asked you.”

John knocked on the cushion. “The answer to the first… Oh. Afghanistan?”

“You may enter at your own perils.”

 

He huffed a laugh and pushed aside the “door”. The entrance was so small he had to go on all fours: it reminded him of the forts he used to build with Harry when they were young, although none of their architectural structures were as elaborate as this one.

When John arrived at the middle of the fort, he gasped: as much as it did not seem like anything on the outside, it looked like a marvellous tent straight out of the One-thousand and one nights tales on the inside. It was big enough to stay breathable, but an adult could certainly not stand comfortably under the sheet. There was their bed mattress laying in the middle of the space, and hundred of Christmas lights displayed up in the air, joining the fake walls to the fireplace where the fire was burning, creating a cozy atmosphere. But what caught John’s eye immediately was Sherlock, sitting at one end of the mattress, his chin resting on his knees, deeply staring at the golden dancing flames. He was wearing his purple robe (and his habitual blue pyjama under it, John suspected), although with the lighting it seemed to be closer to a dark shade of brown.

“Sherlock?” John asked, “why have you built a castle in the middle of our living room?”

He took his time to answer, still not looking at John. “It’s for a case.”

John laughed at the obvious lie. “Come on, I know it’s not.”

“I tell you it’s for a case. I have to establish the rate of temperature rising under—”

But Sherlock did not get to finish his sentence because John was already behind him, sliding his arms around his waist, kissing him on the temple.

“All right, it’s not a castle, it’s a cave.”

There was some vulnerability in his words, and John remembered what Sherlock had told him at the bar, the other night, about how he used to play pirates with his dog. He understood the strange feeling that had dwelled upon him when he had entered the fort: it had felt intensely intimate, as Sherlock was sharing with him – showing him – something that was inherently profound. It was a secret shared in silence, something he knew was precious and important. John wondered how many times did Sherlock build this kind of caves in his childhood, and if he ever had a friend to play in them.

“A cave? Are we searching for a treasure, then?” he asked, playing along.

For the first time that night, Sherlock turned to face John, his eyes glowing from the Christmas lights. “Not anymore, I found him,” he simply stated, before kissing him.

It made John giggle at the same time so their teeth clinked together for a moment. “You hopeless romantic,” he said, before kissing back a little bit harder.

“So, what are we doing, tonight?”

“Mmh,” Sherlock replied, visibly not concentrating on formulating any sensible answer. “We could keep on doing that, I like it. Or cuddle. Or nap. Or…”

He kissed him again, this time pushing him a bit more unto the mattress, before nibbling gently John’s lower lip.

“Mmmmh, I see. So, do you have anything under that robe of yours?”

Sherlock laughed, his breathing slightly increasing. “Only my pants.”

John kissed Sherlock back, running one hand on his chest and pushing him back on the mattress. Sherlock let him, falling on his back, before running his lips on John’s neck.

“Sherlock. Have you ever—”

“No.”

“—had sex before?”

“Oh. That.” He paused for a moment. “No.”

John raised his eyebrow. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“If I have ever been… in love?”

He reached in for another kiss but John stopped him. “You’re… in love with me?”

“Yes. I love you. I that an inappropriate thing to say at this stage of—”

“Shut up,” John answered, running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “I love you too, you mad, mad man.”

They both grinned at each other for a moment, their faces reflecting the soft glow of the fireplace.

“So,” John began, “you’ve never done this before.”

“Well, technically, you—”

“Are you sure you want to?”

“Of course I—”

“And you’re not saying that only because something is pressuring you into this?”

“Frankly John if you could just—”

“’Cos if at any moment you want to stop, you just have to say and—”

Sherlock stopped John’s stubborn mouth with a kiss. “Just… shut up. And shag me already.”

 

***

 

“I think you just… broke me.” Sherlock was lying on his back, all limbs spread, but every single muscle of his body felling limp. “I can’t move. I really can’t.”

John, also lying on his back, turned on his side and laughed. “Come on, come closer, love.”

Sherlock wiggled his way closer to him before receiving a kiss on his forehead. He closed his eyes. “It was the best thing… _ever_. We should do that more often.”

Looking back on it, Sherlock remembered Irene’s words as she had told him that it would probably not be his best. Of course, coming the second John had put his hand in his pants was not the most sexy thing that ever happened to him, but it had been a good occasion to experience with some other things: it was a matter of minutes before Sherlock was hard again, letting them both properly come off this time around.

“We will,” John promised, still unable to stop smiling, “whenever and wherever we want.”

Sherlock chuckled at the many ideas that flew into his head. “I can’t believe I was your first man, you performance was quite extraordinary.”

“You’re my first everything, Sherlock,” John simply answered.

It was quite true in a way: even if he had previously been in relationships with women, most of whom he had sex with, and a smaller number of them he had loved, he felt as if everything with Sherlock was new and intense. And it had not begun that day nor on their first date: it had been true since the very first moment they had met.

He heard a sniff and came back to reality.

“I’m crying now, John, is that normal? I’m not even sad.”

A little bit surprised to see a red-eyed Sherlock looking desperately at him in need of answers, John laughed before squishing Sherlock’s cheek with his lips. “Yeah, that happens sometimes, after sex.”

They just had sex. It hit John like a train. He just had sex with Sherlock Holmes and it was even better than what he had imagined before – and God know he had a lot of imagination. The realization did not shock him more than it made him laugh. “Well that changes everything,” he said out loud.

He was laughing and Sherlock was crying and it was the silliest thing that ever happened to him but it felt so good he did not bother trying not to laugh and Sherlock did not stop crying even though he would had preferred not to… but did things ever work that way?

It made Sherlock sob even more, and it made John laugh so much he thought he would piss himself. So much for the glamorous after-glow, they both thought - and no one said anything.

When they finally managed to calm down, Sherlock turned his head. “It does. Would it be appropriate to say that you are my boyfriend, now?”

John wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, becoming suddenly serious. “If you want to, we could say that. Or lover, partner.”

“Boyfriend,” Sherlock insisted once again.

“Boyfriend it is, then.”

A frown appeared on Sherlock face. “I guess this means that we will have to tell people. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. H.”

“From the sounds you were making earlier, love, I do think she knows what we’re about.”

Sherlock giggled, nuzzling into the crook of John’s neck. “But we’ll tell them?”

All of this sounded so official, John thought, but at the same time it felt right: the world had to know that Sherlock Holmes was his. And Sherlock also thought that it felt right, because the world had to know that John Watson was his. And no one else’s.

“Yeah we will,” John answered. “Can I ask you… since when were you in love with me? Before the dating?”

“I think it started approximately the moment I saw you enter Bart’s lab.”

John chuckled. “I should have figured.”

“And… you?”

“I was in love with you even before I met you, Sherlock. All my life it felt like something was missing until then. I know you don’t believe in that but I was ready to meet you, and to love you, and bloody hell I do. I really do.”

“I believe _you_ ,” Sherlock simply said, with such conviction that it brought tears to John’s eyes. “But if that was the case, why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Ugh. I guess I was afraid.”

And Sherlock did not reply. He did not reply because he knew how it felt to be afraid of going out there without knowing, being blindfolded by so much objectivity that the truth was blurry, that the predictions were uncertain and the answers unknown. He knew because he had felt it numerous times before, because he had wanted to backtrack, to take back what he had said hundreds of times, and the only thing he regretted about all of this was that he had not done it sooner. A feeling of doom squeezed his heart: he could have regretted it all five-thousand times more in twenty years from now if he had said nothing. So, he knew. And John knew Sherlock understood, because he did not try to find a sensible answer to that statement. He simply said:

“John, do you remember that time I asked you out on a date?”

“Vividly.”

“Well… I never thought it would be as simple as that.”

Sherlock kissed John on the side of his head before closing his eyes. They would have time in the morning to tell everybody they knew about their not-so-new relationship. They would go down the stairs, holding hands, kissing before a delighted Mrs. Hudson. They would take a cab to the Yard, be congratulated by Lestrade, and then off to Bart’s to be hugged by Molly. In the morning it would be time to let the world know about it, but for now it was just the two of them, a lonely fort in the living room, a hundred Christmas lights and one bright fireplace. And it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, thank you again for reading it!  
> As this is part of a series the story I will keep writing, but it might take a while before I post the next part.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story!  
> I am [weneedtotalkaboutsherlock](http://weneedtotalkaboutsherlock.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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